Eloise sighed. “It’s not her voice he is interested in. And I cannot compete with her beauty, power, and money.”
“I was not exactly implying you should marry him. I meant you should bed him.”
“You are a foul influence on me.”
“And I think he was intrigued by you. I would even wager he would find your intelligence and looks and age engaging.”
“I thought you gave up gambling. The last time you wagered you wound up with a modiste’s shop.”
Adrienne grinned. “He is, however, just one man. Where there’s one, there’s—”
“None for me. Do you want a budget for next month or not?”
Chapter Four
Sunday, 17 July 1825
Ashton House, Berkeley Square
Shortly after midnight
Robert stared atthe bed canopy over his head, not really seeing the burgundy wool fabric that stretched from the four corners to a central medallion, the thick mahogany frame and intricately carved posts, or the burgundy muslin bed drapes tied to each of the posts. The bed had been installed in Ashton House when it was built 150 years ago and had comforted multiple generations of Ashtons. Robert had slept on it since he left the nursery. It was as much a fixture of the house as the walls or floor, and he seldom paid it any notice.
Instead his mind focused on a single brown lock of hair that curled at the end and slender fingers with smudged gray stains on the tips. Eyes that flashed like amber in the sun and seemed to take in everything they saw. A dark alto voice that soothed, like warm honey and milk on a cold day. Small, high breasts that graced an elegant, lean figure that made Robert’s fingers ache to curl around them... and it. An intelligence that took observations and turned them into succinct and accurate suppositions.
None of which belonged to his soon-to-be betrothed. No... that woman had a lovely mane of golden hair, dark blue eyes, a plush body meant for a gentleman’s bed... and a voice that made him want to claw his own eyes out. Simpering and cajoling, especially when Lydia petted his arm as if it were a lapdog.
As ifhewere her lapdog.
The distracting image of Lady Eloise Surrey evaporated, smoke in the night.
What do they want from me?Robert grimaced. He knew... or he strongly suspected he knew. It had inadvertently come to the fore when he had been discussing business with the men earlier in the evening. Robert knew all too well they all thought him a somewhat inept dandy, and he had probably revealed too much in the discussion. The surprise on their faces when he began asking about their factories in the North had been evident. The expression on the duke’s face, however, had been one of keen smugness. He and his associates owned factories all over England.
As did Robert’s father. The Duke of Kennet, however, also owned a shipping company. A lucrative one with seven ships and a fleeting of overland wagons. And warehouses all along the docks.
Damn, damn, and damn it all to hell.He needed to talk to his father. Robert sat up and checked the clock on his mantel. Just after midnight. His parents would be asleep. He still wanted to awaken his father but knew that the duke would be groggy and annoyed. Philip did not wake up easily. It would have to keep until morning. In the meantime, Robert needed whisky, or he’d never get to sleep.
He swung his legs out of bed and reached for his banyan, tugging the tie into a secure knot. Just as he stood, a sharp banging from the door echoed through the room, and Robert jerked toward it. The door opened, and Michael stood there, gripping the handle, his eyes wide and his face drained.
“Mother’s collapsed! They’ve sent for the doctor!” He vanished, leaving the door open.
Robert hit the hall on a run, turning to see a cluster of servants gathering outside his mother’s bedchamber. Emalyn never used her own bedchamber—she preferred sleeping with her husband—except when she was ill. Robert’s heart sank as he pushed through the servants into the room, stopping near Michael, who stood at the foot of the bed. His mother’s still, limp form lay propped on a mound of pillows, her black hair spread out on the linens around her head. Philip lay on the bed next to her, stroking that hair in repeated, jerky movements, his mouth moving in silent pleas. Beside the bed, Rose held her hand, whispering her name and begging Emalyn to live. Thomas stood behind his wife, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.
Robert stepped closer to Michael. Beth crowded in behind him, clutching his arm and pressing her face into his bicep.
“What happened?” he whispered to Michael.
His brother shook his head. “We don’t know for certain. She and Rose were downstairs when she collapsed. We’re waiting on the doctor. Rose thinks it may be what happened to her father several years ago.”
“A hemorrhagic apoplexy?”
Michael stared at him. “Yes. How did you know?”
Robert did not want to delve into why he knew so much about the inner workings of the Timmons family. Not in this moment.
His reprieve from answering came in the form of Theophile Oakley, the physician who had cared for many of London’s elite families for at least thirty years. Robert could remember no other doctor in the house—except for the surgeon who had removed a pistol ball from Thomas’s shoulder a few weeks earlier.
The crowd at the door parted, and Dr. Oakley entered with rushed strides. The physician, who was lean and muscular with blond hair and a full red beard, looked as Robert remembered from his childhood, although the beard had a few more streaks of white. Rose and Thomas made way for him, and he focused immediately on the patient, asking a dozen questions, which Rose and Thomas answered so softly Robert couldn’t make out the words. While they talked, Philip got up and circled the bed to stand next to Oakley, his head bent low. As Thomas and Rose backed away, Robert, Michael, and Beth moved to the far side of the bed, and the newlyweds took up a position at the foot.
